


requiem

by VioletLopez



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Blood and Violence, Child Abuse, Crutchie is Morris and Oscar's brother u can rip this headcanon from my cold dead hands, Deaf Character, Injury, Insecurity, Loneliness, ily all please be careful, its p sad actually, its your safety thats most important, please don;t read this if that upsets you please please please, spots backstory!, trigger warning, which surprises literally no one, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:39:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletLopez/pseuds/VioletLopez
Summary: Sean has spent almost his whole life alone.~a lot of very depressing character development





	1. House

Sean had spent almost his whole life alone.

1.

He was born the youngest of seven children in a small, shabby apartment, with a stutter and a penchant for tripping over his own feet. He was small and skinny and useless at the most menial of tasks. His siblings never cared for him much. Nobody wants to be burdened with a hopeless case.

His father was a big, brutish man, with thinning hair and a thick accent and a perpetual smell of liquor. His words were more like to yells, his requests to demands, and his thundering footsteps sent shocks of fear up Sean’s spine.

His mother was no kinder. She had sharp glares for when he cowered from his father and sharper slaps for when he snivelled and sobbed. Her back was bent like a crone’s from years of acting as servant to her husband, and her skin was wrinkled from stress-delivered age.

Sean had scarcely turned eight years old when his world was ripped away. It was late evening, maybe nine, and his mother was in the kitchen making dinner. Sean was in the room he shared with two of his brothers, James and Tate, sitting on the floor because they wouldn’t let him sit on the shared bed with them. He normally had to sleep on the floor, too. When you’re useless, no one cares if the chill kills you.

The apartment door slammed open. James and Tate’s conversation, something about a girl they’d met, cut off suddenly. The bedroom door was wide open, affording a view of the kitchen. Sean saw his mother start, dropping the knife in her hand onto the counter. Her face was contorted with fear. Her husband towered above her, his face red with anger and dripping with rain. His huge, meaty hands were clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles had faded to white. He was positively vibrating with unfiltered rage.

Tate silently stood, grabbing James and crawling under the bed. Sean stayed sitting, watching as his parents stared at each other, like they were frozen in time. Tate reached out from under the bed and yanked his arm, pulling him underneath.

“Hide, nitwit. You could get hurt,” Tate muttered in his ear. Sean stared uncomprehendingly. No one cares if you get hurt when you’re useless.

He opened his mouth to point that out, to make Tate understand that it really didn’t matter, but his brother just clapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head. Sean curled up in the dust, ears straining to hear his mother’s faint, fearful words.

“Hello, Tom.”

And just like that, the silence was broken, by his father’s screams of betrayal and infidelity, his mother’s wails of pain and denial, and the sound of skin harshly striking skin. He shut his eyes tight and curled up tighter trying to block it out as his mother’s words were swallowed by screams and then solemn silence.

He heard his father scoff, and then footsteps were thundering into the room. “Tate!” He called, his voice sickly sweet and slurred from alcohol. “Come on, son, where are you?”

Sean looked at his brother, who had gone stiff and white as a corpse. Green eyes stared unblinkingly upwards, with fear pooling out of them and staining his cheeks. Sean reached out, but Tate shoved him in the stomach to keep him at bay. He let out a low whimper.

The footsteps and drunken words paused.

Tate’s look of fear turned to horror, and before Sean could ask why, he was being roughly yanked from his hiding spot and shoved up against the wall, staring into his father’s ruddy features.

“If it isn’t the little faggot,” Tom hissed, his thick fingers wrapping around Sean’s throat. The boy struggled lightly, already resigned to his fate. “I’ll teach you not to eavesdrop, shrimp.” His grip tightened, clenching hard enough to leave bruises on his son’s pale skin, and lifted the small body into the air, legs kicking pathetically. Sean gave a choked cough, trying in vain to fill his lungs with air. The edges of his vision were beginning to fade.

“Stop!” Tate scrambled out from under the bed. “Don’t hurt him, he’s done nothing!”

Tom gave a dark laugh in the direction of his son. “Damn straight he’s done nothing! I’m just purging the world of what it doesn’t need.” He turned his sneer back toward Sean. “You know we don’t need you, don’t you?” He tightened his grip. “You know your mother cried the first time so saw you because you-” he dropped Sean to the ground, but before he could crawl away, a heavy foot collided with the side of his head. “-were so small-” the foot stomped down on his abdomen. He heard something snap. “-and weak-” the boot swung into his side hard enough to pull a half-strangled shriek from his throat. “-and useless. Don’t you know that?” Another kick, and then he was being yanked to his feet. “Don’t you know your siblings hate you?” Tom leered closer, his hands returning to the death grip on his throat. “Answer me, boy.”

Sean could taste blood flooding his mouth, flowing down over his lip. His vision was swimming, but he did his best to nod anyway. “Yeah,” he rasped out as best he could. “Yeah, I know.”

Suddenly, one of Tom’s arms was being yanked away, and Sean could see Tate trying in vain to separate his father and brother. Tom growled and swung his hand, smacking it into Tate’s cheek and sending him stumbling backward, his head snapping into the bed frame behind him. He crumpled to the floor.

Sean gave a muffled sob, and Tom laughed. “Don’t worry, brat, you’ll see him soon.” His grin was maniac. The alcohol on his breath was clear. “In heaven.” He lifted the arm Tate had yanked away, slamming it hard into Sean’s cheek. He let out a piercing scream as his father’s knuckles split the skin, and blood mixed with tears on his cheek. Then he was on the ground again, curling forward in agony. Tate lay unconscious, almost dead but for the slight, slowing rise of his chest. Sean sobbed again and closed his eyes tight as his father kicked him again and again, bruising and splitting the pale skin.

Sean’s eyes fell open, glazed from the mind numbing pain. Blood dripped from his eyebrow, decorating his eyelashes red splashing into his eye. He saw his father draw back his foot, and a hand grab the thick ankle, yanking it to bring Tom crumbling down. James’ voice split the air. “Go, Sean! Run!”

The eight year old scrambled to his feet as best he could, ignoring his body’s protests as he ran out of the apartment, emerging into pouring rain. Within seconds he was soaked to shivering, but fear kept him running through the slick streets, until his legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground, crying and lost and alone.


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lmao half of this chapter is in italian good luck

No one wants you when you’re useless, right?

2.

Sean didn’t expect to wake up again. He expected to remain forever wrapped in the inky numbness that had consumed him, bleeding and abandoned on the streets of New York City. To his surprise, however, things unfolded quite differently.

His eyes felt like they were made of cotton, dry and too large for their sockets. He was warm, which was disorienting, as he’d expected the chill of rain. Beneath his body was soft - a mattress? He blinked, and though his vision was blurry, he could mostly make out his surroundings. He was on a bed, covered with a threadbare blanket, wearing someone else’s clothes that were a bit too large. Looking around the room he was in, he could see another bed against the opposite wall, with a green blanket instead of blue, and a small kitchen with dishes piled in the sink. There was a fireplace on the far side of the room, with a wooden rocking chair set up in front of it and various children’s toys on the floor.

He also noticed that the bed he was lying in was large, meant for two people, and that there was someone else in it with him.

He shrieked slightly, and the figure jerked to a sitting position. It was a boy, probably just a bit older than Sean, who looked just as surprised as him. “Who are you?” he demanded. The boy just stared.

“Che cosa? Sono confuso.”

Sean blinked. The boy blinked. “What?”

“Che cosa?” The look of confusion on the boy’s face was growing. “Non parli italiano?”

“I-tal-y-ah-no?” Sean tried to mimic. “Are you Italian? Is that Italian? I don’t know Italian.”

The boy stared at him for a couple minutes, clearly not comprehending. “Non sono sicuro se non sai italiano o se sei solo un idiota.”

Sean frowned. “Did you just call me an idiot?”

The boy giggled, reaching out to poke his face. “Stai cercando di guardare arrabbiato? Il tuo viso sembra divertente.”

“What are you saying?” Sean pulled his legs up to his chest. He almost wanted to go home. He’d rather deal with his family’s neglect than this terribly confusing boy beside him.

The boy frowned. “Non volevo renderti triste.” He wrapped the threadbare blue blanket around Sean’s shoulders. “Qualcuno ha fatto male? Sei ferito.” Sean buried his face in his knees. It was scary when he didn’t know what was going on.

The boy tapped his shoulder. “Tony,” he said in a thick accent, pointing to himself.

“Your name is Tony?” The boy nodded. “I’m Sean.”

“Where…” the boy frowned. “Outside, rain. Family?”

“They left me,” Sean whispered. Tony pulled away part of the blanket and wrapped around himself, so that the two boys were pressed together beneath it.

“Sorry.” And he did sound sorry, his eyes wide and brimming with sadness. “Sad, alone.”

“It is sad to be alone,” Sean agreed, gripping the blanket tighter. It was November, and winter chill was beginning to creep in.

“Home?”

“Don’t have one.”

Tony looked annoyed. “Home,” he repeated, more insistent.

“But I don’t -”

“Home!” Tony exclaimed, gesturing to himself. “Resta qui! Posso essere vostra casa, sì?”

“What?” Sean stared at him. “I don’t understand, I only speak English.”

Tony looked annoyed. “Resta qui! Voglio che tu rimanga!”

“I’m sorry?” Sean tried. “I’m sorry, I’m so useless, but I don’t understand.”

Tony’s face fell. “Useful,” he insisted. “Home.”  
“No, they hated me.”

“Me!”

“What? What do you want?”

“You… me. No no, alone."

Sean had never felt more so in his life.


	3. Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may notice that the planning for this story has increased by three chapters. this is essentially because i couldn't fit all of Spot's suffering into five chapters.
> 
> ain't that the most exciting thing?
> 
> oh and i'm gonna translate the italian at the bottom don't worry

Because when you’re useless, no one needs you.

3.

Eventually, Sean fell into an uneasy sleep, wrapped in the warm blanket and Tony’s whispered, “Buona notte.” He drifted in and out of disturbing dreams of his father’s twisted face morphing into Tate’s still features into James’ shouts into Tony’s confused exclamations. It all mixed together into one big myriad of sound and colour, the feeling of rain, the strike of lightning over the skyline, the stones of the street scraping his hands and feet. And then suddenly he was in his family’s apartment, sitting on the floor because he wasn’t allowed on the bed, like a dog, like a nuisance, like something useless, and there was silence ringing loud around him and his young heart stung like the one time he’d been stung by a bee because he was alone, so alone, forever and ever alone-

“Anthony Higgins!” Sean was jerked back into the warm, strange apartment. The boy, Tony, was still next to him, sitting up on the bed. “Who is this?” Sean turned to see a young woman, her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed accusingly. She was lovely, even with her freckled face twisted up into a suspicious glare, with fair skin and blue eyes and dark hair twined into a thick braid.

“Ciao, Marizella,” Tony exclaimed, scrambling over Sean and out of the bed. The woman sighed, but she dropped her glare and scooped the boy into her arms.

“Si dovrebbe essere addormentato,” she murmured in a scolding tone, releasing him and smoothing his bangs back.

“Stavo guardando per Sean. Egli è stato un brutto sogno,” Tony told her, eyes wide and face serious. Sean sat up when he heard his name, curiousity boiling at his insides. The woman frowned and glanced up at the boy on the bed.

“Are you Sean?” She asked. She had a thick accent, like Tony’s. Sean nodded shyly, and she offered him a smile. “I’m Marizella. I’m Tony’s sister. How did you end up here?”

Sean glanced down at his hands, folded in his lap because he wasn’t sure what do with them. “They got rid of me,” he said simply. “No one wants you when you’re useless.”

Marizella’s face hardened. “Accidenti a tossicodipendenti,” she muttered darkly, and Sean got the feeling she was cursing something. “Perché mai hanno essi non si cura per i bambini?” She gave Sean a look. “You’re not useless, though. No one is useless.” Sean blinked.

“I’m… I’m not anyone,” he stammered. Marizella frowned, sitting down on the bed and reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes you are. You aren’t useless. Trust me.” Sean blinked again, just staring. She sighed.

“Who told you you're useless?”

“Oh!” That was easy. “Everyone.” He frowned. “Well, my father at least, and my mother, and Ellen a few times. Only when she was angry though. And at school they said it, that and a lot of other things, and Tate never said it, not really, but he never disagreed.”

Marizella took a deep breath, like she was trying to calm herself down. “I see,” she responded in a steady voice. And then, “What do you think about staying here a while?”

Sean blinked. “I - really?” She nodded. “I’d… I’d like that, I think.”

She smiled and leaned over to plant a soft kiss on his forehead.

“Grazie a Dio,” she murmured, her accent thicker as the Italian fell off her tongue. “Ci prenderemo cura di te, non ti preoccupare.”

The door opened again, and Sean tensed. The entranceway was suddenly filled, a man with dark hair and thick arms stepping through. His shoulders were slumped, his head hanging toward the floor, and all Sean could think was that he knew that pose, knew it far too well, because that was the pose that his father had used after a difficult day, right before he began to drink.

The man crossed the room toward the bed, and Sean let out a low whimper, too scared to stop it. Marizella reached out and grasped his hand. “It’s alright, Sean,” she told him in a calm, steady tone. “This is my father. He’s not going to hurt you.” The man was holding a little boy, Sean noticed suddenly, who looked to be asleep. He set the child down on the bed and he stirred, blinking awake. His wide eyes caught Sean’s, and they stared at each other. After a minute, the boy’s brow furrowed and he crawled to the other side of the bed, flopping down with a dramatic sigh and burrowing under the covers. The man gave a soft laugh, shaking his head fondly, and turned to look at Sean, a smile gracing his features.

Sean relaxed the tiniest fraction. This man, who laughed and smiled and reached out to brush Marizella’s hair off her forehead, he was nothing like Thomas. He couldn’t be, not when he laid a big hand on Sean’s little shoulder and spoke in a soft, warm tone with a happy light dancing in his eyes.

“Lei parla italiano?” He asked. Sean pulled his knees up to his chest, but somehow it wasn’t as distressing as it had been when he’d first woken up.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But I don’t know what you’re saying.”

The man chuckled quietly again. “No need to apologize,” he said in perfect English. He glanced next to him at Tony, who was standing there with wide blue eyes.

“Egli può capirti?” He asked, crawling onto his father’s lap. His father chuckled and ruffled his hair.

“Si,” he said, and then to Sean, “I’ll have to teach Anthony English, I suppose. He only knows a little.” Sean could only nod, unsure if that was the correct response but too tired to waste energy on words. “I’m his father, by the way. Mr. Higgins.” Tony pulled on his father’s sleeve.

"Convincerlo a restare.” He demanded stubbornly.

“Anthony-”

“Convincerlo a restare! Voglio che rimanga!”

“Per la notte, almeno,” Mr. Higgins soothed, smoothing his son’s hair.

“Lo voglio rimanere per sempre."

“Forever è un lungo, lungo tempo, Anthony.”

“Non ha in nessun posto dove andare,” Marizella chimed in. “Gli ho chiesto della sua famiglia prima, e disse- ” she paused. “Ha detto che si è sbarazzato di lui. ”

Sean pulled the covers up to his chin and laid down, ignoring the low rumble of Italian just beside him. He pretended to fall asleep, and didn’t acknowledge the big hand that patted his little shoulder, accompanied by a soft, “Sleep well Sean,” or the brush of Marizella’s lips across his forehead or the rustle of the covers as Tony climbed into bed beside him.

Tony’s hand gripped his wrist lightly before the Italian boy gave a soft, unsure kiss on his forehead and murmured in clumsy English, “Good night.” 

He opened his eyes once everyone else had fallen asleep, and sat up against the headboard, staring out into the dark and wondering how he could possibly fit into this family if he couldn’t even fit in his own.

He ignored the tears rolling down his face and told himself he wasn’t lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aight imma translate the conversation because i doubt most of my readers know italian  
> btw i only took one italian course and i know very little so correct me if any of this is wrong
> 
> Ciao, Marizella: Hello, Marizella.  
> Si dovrebbe essere addormentato: You should be asleep.  
> Stavo guardando per Sean. Egli è stato un brutto sogno: I was protecting Sean. He had a bad dream.
> 
> Accidenti a tossicodipendenti. Perché mai hanno essi non si cura per i bambini: Damn abusers. Why do they have children they aren't going to care for?  
> Grazie a Dio. Ci prenderemo cura di te, non ti preoccupare: Thank God. We'll take care of you, don't worry.
> 
> Lei parla italiano: Do you speak Italian?  
> Egli può capirti: Can he understand you?  
> Convincerlo a restare: Make him stay.  
> Convincerlo a restare! Voglio che rimanga!: Make him stay! I want him to stay!  
> Per la notte, almeno: For the night, at least.  
> Lo voglio rimanere per sempre: I want him to stay forever.  
> Forever è un lungo, lungo tempo, Anthony: Forever is a long, long time, Anthony.  
> Non ha in nessun posto dove andare. Gli ho chiesto della sua famiglia prima, e disse- Ha detto che si è sbarazzato di lui: He hasn't got anywhere else to go. I asked him about his family earlier, and he said- he said they got rid of him.


	4. The Tragedy of a New York Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and this is where it goes to hell

And the world has no time for what it does not need.

4.

It hadn’t taken long for Sean to adjust to the roll of life at the Higgins. Every morning, Mr. Higgins and Marizella would wake with the sun, preparing to leave for work. Mr. Higgins would reach over the sleeping forms of Tony and Sean to lift the barely-stirring form of the little boy, Julian, into his arms, ready to drop him off at the Duke’s apartment downstairs. Marizella would drop a kiss onto each of the older boy’s forehead, Sean feigning sleep as she murmured a soft “dormi bene,” into Tony’s ear and translated it to English for Sean. As soon as the door closed behind her, he would sit up, enjoying the silence of the next few hours and winding his fingers through Tony’s blond curls. He would quickly extract his hands when the Italian boy began to stir, and as soon as the blue eyes blinked open, the silence was gone, sacrificed to the lilt of his chatter.

It wasn’t a bad swap, Sean mused, his eyes fixed on a book as Tony prattled on beside him. He even found a smile twitching onto his face once or twice, or a laugh shocked out of him. It always seemed to make Tony’s face light up.  
Not everything was so perfect, though. There were nights when they had little food, or none at all. There were days when Tony would be quieter than normal, and just curl up against Sean’s side because he felt so alone.

Sometimes it crossed Sean’s mind that before he had come along, Tony had spent all these hours alone, and everytime the thought occurred to him he would frown and interlock his fingers with Tony’s. Someone like Tony didn’t deserve to be lonely. It was only people like Sean. The useless people.

Sean had never met anyone useless besides himself though.

There were other days that weren’t so good, but they didn’t come around often. Sean grew accustomed to the flow of the days as they came, passing by in safety and normalcy and a place where he could pretend like they wanted him. Sometimes Mr. Higgins wouldn’t come home til late, and Marizella would have to go fetch Julian, coming home to a yawning Sean and Tony. Sometimes even she wouldn’t be back before the clock struck ten, and Tony would go knock on the Duke’s door himself. Usually he made Sean go with him, and would clench his hand tightly as they made their way downstairs.

Sean had thought it would be one of those days. It was already past eight thirty, and neither Mr. Higgins nor Marizella had yet darkened the door. Tony’s words had slowed to a halt around an hour ago, and he had his head leant on his friend’s shoulder, reading alongside him. Their eyelids were fluttering, the abyss of sleep singing a sweet siren song, Tony’s breaths beginning to slow against Sean’s ear. They missed the door swinging open slowly, and the first choked sob, and very nearly the second but for the loud thud that accompanied it. Tony’s head jerked off of Sean’s shoulder, and wide eyes trained on Mr. Higgins, who stood in the open doorway with Julian cowering behind his legs. His fist was resting against the doorframe, like he’d punched it from frustration.

“Papa?” Mr. Higgins’ eyes lifted to the two little boys, wrapped in a threadbare blue blanket with skinny, fearful faces and skinny legs and skinny little hands holding a book that was stained with coffee and time, and he couldn’t stop the third sob, nor the first trickles of tears that followed it. He stumbled across the room and knelt before them, placing his hands on their knees.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “Boys, I’m so, so sorry.”

And he did sound sorry. He sounded miserable, so Sean slowly closed the book and set it aside, climbing off the bed and wrapping his arms around Mr. Higgins, desperate to help if at all he could. Tony followed suit, and soon even little Julian came across the room to join them, nestling his head into his father’s chest. “Ti amo, bambini,” Mr. Higgins whispered into Tony’s curls. “Ti amo.”

They didn’t find out what happened that night. After what felt like hours of standing there holding each other, Mr. Higgins put the boys to bed and stumbled back out the door. The lamps had all been put out, and Sean sat on the edge of the bed, his legs swinging back and forth slowly. He stared out into the darkened apartment, pondering.

A hand brushed against his arm. He jolted, eyes skimming across the blackness to see Julian next to him, hand carefully placed on his arm. He looked nervous.

“Hello,” Sean whispered. Julian’s brows wrinkled together.

“A-” the little boy drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, fearful eyes still fixed on Sean. “I’m sorry.” It sounded strange, unsure, like he wasn’t entirely sure what the words were supposed to sound like.

“Sorry about what?” Julian’s cheeks flushed.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “But I don’t understand.”

Sean frowned. “Why not?” He was met with a blank stare. He repeated his question, a little louder but still mindful of the sleeping Tony. Julian shifted, but kept his eyes on Sean.

“I can’t see you good when it’s dark.” His whole face had turned red. “And I need to be able to see you, because I- I can’t hear you.”

Sean sat still for a few seconds, minutely shocked by this new development. Then he leaned closer to the littler boy, so his face could be better seen. “How do you talk to George, then? Isn’t he your best friend?” Julian paused momentarily, his hand on Sean’s arm tensing. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Sean amended quickly, but from the look on Julian’s face, he hadn’t seen the movement of Sean's lips. His little fingers began tapping against Sean’s arm, like the rhythm of a song. Sean bit his lip, about to pull back, assuming Julian wasn’t going to tell him.

The little boy’s fingers halted their rhythm. “See?”

Sean’s brow wrinkled. He reached out to lay a hand on Julian’s shoulder, hesitantly tapping his fingers a few times. Julian giggled.

“You just said ‘duck’,” he informed Sean, a smile twitching on his young face. “Do you want me to teach you?” Sean nodded, and didn’t stop until he was sure Julian had seen it through the dim light.

He smiled back at the six-year-old. _Maybe I’m not alone._

Sean awoke before the sun bloomed over the horizon to the door opening. He blinked into the shadows, a sliver of light from the cracked door falling into the room. Sean sat up, but the door closed again before he could move any more.

The veil of sleep was ripped violently away by a string of angry Italian. Sean bolted into a sitting position, momentarily blinded by the sudden sunlight that came with the morning. Marizella was pacing the room, yelling and gesturing wildly with her hands, and Mr. Higgins sat stock still in the rocking chair, his face a mixture of shock and remorse.

“Come hai potuto? Perche ' avresti mai-” She practically growled, hands grabbing at her hair. “Avresti dovuto per essere passato questo! Le cose andavano meglio, e ora sono compromessi tutti-questo potrebbe essere il boia del vostro futuro! E Tony e Julian? E Sean! Anche pensare a come questo influenzerà li?”

Tony wrapped an arm around Sean’s shoulders from behind, tugging him into his chest. The smaller boy curled against his friend, hiding his face in the thin shoulder as the shouting echoed behind him. Julian was huddled under Tony’s other arm, his face pressed into his knees. Sean reached out, pulling him closer, and the little boy’s arms latched around his waist. He could feel the little one shaking, and realized how terrifying all this must be when someone is screaming, raging, yelling words you cannot hear in a language you could never understand. He pulled one arm from around Tony and pressed his index and middle fingers together, tapping them three times against Julian’s chest, then his index finger twice.

 _You’re safe_ , and _we’re safe_.  
Julian gave a weak smile. Tony frowned, confused, and buried his face in his brother’s hair. They stayed like that, huddled together like they were weathering a storm, while Marizella screamed and Mr. Higgins grew paler and the cold winds crept into the room because no one had lit the fireplace. It seemed hours that she chastised him, her hands clenched into trembling fists and her face so angry that the anger had begun to fade into fear.

Sean couldn’t help but remember the look on Tate’s face when they were lying together beneath the bed, couldn’t suppress the memories of tearing skin and his own tears falling in his wounds, couldn’t keep the words Marizella shouted from twisting in furious bellows of distrust and infidelity. He was shaking so hard that when he tapped the back of his hand on Julian’s shoulder once, meaning help, the little boy could hardly tell what he meant.

Finally, finally, after an eternity of shaking and reliving in excruciating detail the reel of memories that his father had left him with, the shouting drew to a close, and Marizella stormed out the door. Mr. Higgins remained where he was, though his eyes looked miles upon miles away.

“Papa?” He gave them a stiff smile, like he would rather frown, and stood, following Marizella out the door.

For the first time since Sean arrived, Julian didn’t go to the Duke’s apartment for the day. The three of them sat together, wondering and worrying and each so painfully alone in their own way.

It wasn’t long after Mr. Higgins lost his job that December came stomping in with blustering winds and a wave of muddy slush casting itself over the streets. It was two weeks later that old Señorita Lopez on the floor above fell ill. After that it was Charlie Delancey downstairs, then both the Duke boys.

“And they’re still making him work, too,” Marizella said, aggravation clear in her tone. “You know they’re going to send George to that factory as soon as they can, don’t you? It’s not safe there. Looking at Ryan pains me, when I see how thin he is. I was walking by one time, on my way to the store, and I saw them on lunch break, taking the poor boy’s food. He didn’t fight back. He never does, and someday it’ll get him killed.”

In any case, Julian couldn’t very well spend his time at the Duke’s with George ill, and he began spending his time at home. It was a strange adjustment for him.

 _I’m not sure I like it here_ , he told Sean in a flurry of shaky taps and signs.

Sean frowned and tapped his left ear twice with his pinky. _Why?_

Julian glanced over to the other side of the room, where Tony was flipping through the book he and Sean usually read during the day with barely veiled disinterest. His face seemed to be teetering on the edge of a frown.

_He doesn’t want me here._

Sean caught Julian’s hand mid air just after he finished his sentence, a frown creasing his face. He tapped two times on the inside of Julian’s wrist. _Wrong._

Julian’s left pinky traced around the outside of his ear, while the other hand rested in a fist against Sean’s heart. _How do you know?_

Sean bit his lip and tapped his lips once with his middle and fourth finger, pointing at Tony. _I’ll ask Tony._

Julian nodded shakily, and Sean climbed off the bed, making his way across the room. “Tony?” he asked in a soft voice. His friend’s head jerked up, features suddenly flooded with a brilliant smile.

“Sean!”

Sean’s mouth twitched toward a frown. “No need to be so excited, we live together.”

Tony’s smile died a little. “Of course. Sorry, amico mio.”

Sean glanced over his shoulder where Julian was sitting on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest as he picked at the bedsheets with dirty fingernails. He was gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Is something wrong, Sean?” He turned back around.

“Uh, Julian- he uh-” Tony frowned and closed his book, dropping it on the floor.

“Is he ok?”

“He said you don’t want him here,” Sean blurted out, and the look on Tony’s face was hurt and confused and not understanding, and the curly-haired boy opened his mouth, but Sean cut him off because he was scared of what might be said if he didn’t. “And I told him you do, but he didn’t believe me and I’m not entirely sure I believe me, and if you really don’t want him then can you at least pretend? Because he’s hurting and that’s bad and he shouldn’t be hurting because he’s only six anyway and…” his voice decrescendoed dramatically, and he finished in a whisper. “And he’s already hurt enough already.”

There was a sombre silence after the words stopped flooding from Sean’s lips. Tony blinked once, twice, and then jumped out of the chair, making his way across the room to where Julian was.

“There’s no need to pretend,” he said quietly, hardly loud enough for Sean to hear. “No need at all.” He pulled his little brother gently against him, and Julian stiffened in surprise for half a second before relaxing, wrapping his arms around Tony in return.

“It just scares me, is all,” Tony confided later, when Julian had fallen asleep but the older two wanted to wait up to see Marizella before they fell asleep. “Because I’m his brother and I’m supposed to protect him but I can’t understand his language and he can’t understand mine and so if something’s hurting him I can’t know.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Sean told him, scooting closer and leaning his head on Tony’s shoulder. “I’m his brother too, now. I’ll help you take care of him.”

Tony wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Grazie, amico mio.”

He was a friend now, Sean pondered. He was a brother.

And this sort of family, the kind that really lived up to the name, was the sort of family that once you were part of it, you could never be alone.

You have to watch out for family, though, and Sean failed at that far too soon for comfort. It was only a month later, the clocks ticking just past the half-mark of January, when they elected that Julian could start staying with the Duke’s again, because George appeared to be better.

“I don’t want him back there-”

“You’re not his mother, ‘Zella.”

“Papa, listen to me! They-”

“They may have their faults, but they’ve taken care of him-”

“Yes, at the expense of Ryan! You may not be aware, as you’ve been skulking around the city looking for a job to replace the one you _surrendered_ , but they’ve kicked Ryan onto the curb-”

“He’ll be fine-”

“He’s ten!”

“So? I saw him on a street corner a couple days ago, yelling out headlines. He’ll be leading a fine life.”

“Maybe a fine life, but a quick one with a slow death from starvation,” Marizella spat, and then she stormed out of the apartment and Mr. Higgins sat with his head in his hands, crying silently for a long, long time.

Maybe, Sean contemplated, maybe he wasn’t the only one that felt alone.

It took three weeks, and Julian collapsed on the way back up to their apartment.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Marizella said, but the words were hollow and tear-stained and invoked no reaction from Mr. Higgins but a pat on the shoulder.

He never hugged her anymore, not like when Tony or Sean were upset, but Sean told himself that it was fine, that none of them were alone because they were a family (whatever that meant) and that meant that they didn’t let jaded fights build indomitable rifts between them.

Julian was burning to the touch, his lips chapped and faded, with his eyes fluttering open every few hours to stare at the ceiling with a dazed, glassy look. There was no money for a doctor, not with the simple salary from Marizella’s factory job, and so Sean and the Higgins spent their days trying in vain to wield their measly possessions as agents of healing. Marizella, every night, would lie him next to her in her bed, so that she could wake and do her best to aid if his slumber was interrupted by pain.

“I miss him,” George Duke whispered one day, because he and his parents had come up, bearing dinner and hope of the Higgins’ fortune. “He’s gone, and Ryan’s gone, and my parents are sending me to work soon-”

“Isn’t that how Ryan got hurt?” Tony asked in a hushed voice.

“That’s how Ryan died,” George corrected shortly, and then his parents pulled him out the door.

Two days later, as Sean and Tony were coming down the stairs from where they had been delivering a pie, baked by Marizella, to the Wyent family, Charlie Delancey was coming upstairs for his piano lesson from Señorita Lopez. They passed him and he threw them a grin.

“G’morning, Tony, Sean,” he greeted in his usual sunny way. “Wish I could chat, but I’m already late.”

“A’course,” Tony replied, just as brightly. “See you later?” Sean just nodded.

They only made it a few more steps before a hitched gasp sounded, and Charlie came tumbling backwards past them, landing at the bottom on the stairs with a sickening crack. It was silent.

“Dio mio,” Tony said numbly, and then the two of them were rushing down the stairs after their fallen neighbor. Sean touched Charlie’s forehead carefully, irrationally afraid that too rough a touch would shatter the boy to pieces. The fever from his illness had come raging back, and Sean ripped his hand back like he was the one burning.

Up until that point, even with George bedridden, even with Julian unable to open his eyes, the illness ravaging them had seemed untouchable, unreal, like a surreal dream.

“A fever dream, maybe,” Tony would tell him later, while they were huddled under the blankets on the bed trying to fall asleep in the chill as the fire’s last embers died. Sean would shiver and huddle closer to his friend, ignoring the sickening reality of what Julian’s coughs could mean. It was better his breath come out in rasping chokes than not come out at all.

Charlie had landed on his leg. That, Sean supposed, was the real reason it was all suddenly so terrible - the boy had snapped the knee beyond the skills of any affordable doctor. One winter illness, one tumble down the stairs, and he was sentenced to the life of a crip, unable to walk without a crutch ever again.

“That’s terrible,” Sean mumbled one night as they ate dinner, the four of them together because the snow had blocked Marizella from going to work that day. She snorted derisively.

“What’s worse is that they’ve thrown him out,” she replied in a dry tone. “Tossed him to the curb like yesterday’s paper. He’ll be about as living as one in a few days’ time.”

“Marizella!” Mr. Higgins said sharply, and she fell silent with a glower.

That night, Sean awoke to the creaking of the door. He sat straight up, eyes fixed on the small glimmer of light falling across the floor. It disappeared with a soft click, and faint footsteps tapped away.

Sean drew in a shuddering breath, his heart seizing silent in his chest. His eyes drifted across the room to where Marizella was sitting up in bed, Julian curled against her chest with his eyebrows furrowed as he restlessly dozed. As Sean watched, the boy shifted slightly, muttering, and coughed once, twice, before falling silent again.

“Go to sleep, Sean,” Marizella said quietly, and he obeyed.

It took time, as all things do, but as the days faded by, so the frequency of Julian’s coughs. The clock ticked and ticked, and each day Sean woke a little less afraid that this was the doomsday, the day he would lose Julian to Death’s morbid curiosity of the living. The sun began to turn the muddy snow on the roads to muddy slush, and the Señorita Lopez’s geraniums began to bloom. The city recovered. Julian recovered.

Marizella didn’t, and as April rains fell, they cried.


	5. middle; index; ring; middle

That’s not to say there was no time for little Sean Conlon… right?

5.

For weeks upon weeks, Sean stayed up all night, holding Julian close to him as the younger boy cried. His fingers tapped ceaselessly on Sean’s arms, repeating the same word over and over in an unending loop

_middle, index, ring, middle; middle, index, ring, middle; middle, index, ring, middle_

_sorry; sorry; sorry_

Sean was sorry too. He was sorry that he hadn’t helped Marizella. He was sorry that he hadn’t helped Charlie. He was sorry he couldn’t calm Julian’s grief. He was sorry he couldn’t stop Tony from crying on his shoulder at night. He was sorry he took up space in their apartment. He was sorry for taking their food. He was sorry he’d ever left home. He was sorry he’d ever been born.  
By the middle of April, everything was how it was before the illness, aside from the gaping, Marizella-shaped hole that had been left in all their lives. It was late at night and the Higgins were fast asleep. Tony rolled over, muttering, and Sean sighed, running his hand through the other boy’s hair.

Then he slid out of bed, tiptoeing toward the door. The floor creaked under his feet, and he winced at the noise, pausing. Tony muttered in his sleep again. Sean swallowed hard and kept walking, slower now to keep the creaking to a minimum. He paused as he passed by where Julian was sleeping and reached out, letting his fingers tap over the boy’s cheek with a touch as light as the lunar light drifting through the windows.  
middle, index, ring, middle

He closed quietly the door on his way out. He walked silently the halls he had taken up to Senora Lopez’s for the piano she gave for free. He treaded without a sound down the stairs where he had witnessed Charlie Delancey’s life crumble, just months before. His eyes were on his feet, his lip gripped beneath his teeth as he prepared to leave the past and present that should have been his future. But they didn’t deserve a burden, and that was all that he had proved to be.

Sean pushed open the door, and three things happened in very quick succession: he caught sight of the man on the other side, all scarred skin and glittering eyes like a rat’s, and he opened his mouth to scream; a hand was clapped over his mouth and compressed his nose so he could hardly breathe; and the door was closed on the night air, leaving him trapped in this strange grip in the dark hallway.

“You’re the dog he took in, huh?” the man said in a low tone, too quietly to be heard by the tenants. He cast a gaze up and down his small captive. “Can’t imagine you’d be much use.” And he laughed just as quietly, and Sean wondered why the words didn’t sting as much as when he saw them reflected in Mr. Higgins’ eyes.

And he was thinking of Mr. Higgins, then, and he realized, quite suddenly, that Mr. Higgins was the man that had taken in him, and that Mr. Higgins always came home late, haggard and lined with sadness, and he always pulled shut the curtains and triple-checked the locks, and that none of the children were permitted to go anywhere unless with him - and Sean realized, in a jolting, shocking sort of way, that the man with his scarred hand pressing against Sean’s face was here for Mr. Higgins, and that all evidence suggested Mr. Higgins didn’t want him to be.

He started struggling, but Sean was small and weak and always had been, and his efforts only served to make the man laugh and holder him tighter. The difficulty of sucking in a shuddering, shivering breath took all the fight out of his body, and he was helpless, tears leaking out his eyes, waiting on his world to crumble.

Sometime during this, the man had begun walking, and they were making their way up the stairs, Sean dangling some inches above the ground with seemingly no effort at all. Sean wasn’t much an effort, really, just a burden to good intentions.  
There were nearing the Higgins’ door, and Sean suddenly went completely limp - not as an escape attempt or anything of the sort, but just with defeat, because he had left the Higgins’ door unlocked, and there was nothing to stop the man from getting in.  
(somewhere in the back of his mind sean thinks that a lock couldn't stop this man anyway)

The door was pushed open, and light flooded into the hallway. They had a brief second to take in the scene - Mr. Higgins’ face was lined with stress and fear, his coat halfway on - Tony was crying, arms wrapped around himself, sitting by the headboard - and  
Julian had a hand pressed to his cheek, lost somewhere behind his eyes. The picture was heartbreaking, and Sean had a moment to process that they were looking for him before Tony saw them in the doorway and whimpered, his eyes fixed on Sean’s. Mr. Higgins turned faster than should have been possible, and the scarred man just laughed and shifted his fingers so that Sean’s breathing was even more stunted.

“Put him down,” Mr. Higgins said firmly.

“That’s why I’m here,” the man replied, and Mr. Higgins went pale, and a chuckle bubbles up from the man’s throat. The edges of Sean’s vision were beginning to fade to black, and he wondered what brought this on. He had been told about God and the angels under His command, and he wondered if that deity had any time for him. He wondered if the angels had mentioned his name in song, or if Paul knew his name, standing at the Pearly Gates.  
But Sean knew that he wasn’t worth anything to anyone else, so why should he matter to God? Why should the angels know his name? Why should Paul know his face? Why, when the black finally collapsed in on his vision, should he ever again see anything at all? Why should he be let into heaven, when on earth, all he had been was a burden?

He hadn’t breathed in over forty seconds, and Sean wondered if perhaps he would die here, running from his past, in the presence of the family of his present, dwelling on what might make up his future. It’s rather poetic. He wouldn’t mind it, really, but Tony is crying, and that takes priority over any sort of poetry. He starts crying again, and tries pulling in a breath. It’s hardly there, but it’s something, and the black flickers just a bit.

When the man dropped him, he didn’t at first notice, with his legs being numb as they were, and the void that had replaced his eyes, and he collapsed bonelessly on the floor of the apartment. The man kicked his side with a force that made him roll, and he curled in on himself.

No time had passed, he realized, no time at all, and it was still October, and he was still curled up in a ball on the dusty floor, and the stinging in his side was Tom and there was no such thing as mercy there was no such concept as God there was no love no acceptance there was no Higgins family to drag down there was no reason to feel guilty except for the irritation he had brought the Conlons he screwed his eyes shut and waited for it to end this torture this pain and he realized that the pain was fading but the blows were still landing because he was dying because he was going to die because God had deemed him unworthy to be here or maybe God hadn’t noticed his existence at all and so God couldn’t care less if he died or not-

And then the blows had stopped landing but they were being exchanged above him, and Sean realized that he was wrong, and that was a world brought about by his own panicked brain.

He was having a lot of realizations tonight, and he wasn’t entirely sure he liked any of them.

“Sean?” Tony was beside him, and Sean stared at him without really seeing him, blinking every second. Nothing felt real. “Sean?” Tony repeated, and he shook his friend’s arm. “Are you ok?”

“No,” Sean said, and he sat up; Tony pulled him into a hug, and Sean wondered why it was so hard to move his arms. Behind him, Mr. Higgins and the scarred man were still trading blood. He shuddered at the sound of punches hitting their target and leaned his head into Tony’s shoulder. Julian had scrambled down off the bed and over to them, and Tony let go of Sean and stood up. Sean pulled himself up to an unsteady stance and stumbled, grabbing Tony’s hand to keep balanced.  
“Va bene, mi amico,” Tony told him, but neither of them believed it, and the sentiment fell flat. It wasn’t ok.

The man’s fist strikes against Mr. Higgin’s cheek, hard, and he stumbles backwards. The scarred man kicks him in the stomach as he tries to rise, and Mr. Higgins doubles back down, managing to cough out a few more words- “Run,” and it was a hoarse whisper. “Run!” as a shout. He let himself fall to the ground, let the man beat him, and used his energy to yell, to scream in a way that must have ripped his throat to shreds.

“Run! Run! Run!”

Tony had grabbed Julian’s hand and tugged him out the door, but Sean was frozen in place, because he had to do something, anything, but he wasn’t sure there was anything to do. Mr. Higgins stared back at him, eyes beginning to fade like he was losing something crucial, but Sean didn’t want to think of what because Mr. Higgins’ lips were beginning to get dyed crimson, and he was still forcing out that one word, in a whisper that was getting softer and softer, and it didn’t really seem like a command anymore, just a desperate plea.

“Run.”

And then his lips stopped forming that word and that crimson colour was dripping down over his chin onto the floor, and his eyes were staring straight into Sean’s, and Sean wondered if Mr. Higgins would say hi to Paul for him. He thought Mr. Higgins would probably first think of Julian or Anthony, so he discarded the possibility.

At that point he realized what he had just seen. And he screamed.

The man laughed, and Sean ran. He stumbled over the door frame and he stumbled down the stairs and he tripped over his own feet and he struggled with the door handle and he fell down and scraped his knee, cold and alone on the street outside a building that was void of human life, abandoned by its tenants and inhabited only by the past that had been his present, and he cried, and behind him the building went up in flames.

He stayed there, curled into a ball, knees against his chest and head against his knees, in the gutter, and he decided somewhere in those moments of timeless time that perhaps there was no God at all, and he’d only been romanticizing tragedy this whole time.

Finally he ran out of tears to cry, and he had one more realization: he was a simple smudge on the canvas of New York City, hardly a shadow on the scummy streets. He was a piece of chipped rock, broken and scattered. He was alone.

Rock can turn to crystal.

And a crystal is never left alone.


	6. blue in brooklyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter!
> 
> there's some graphic-ish violence in it, so if you don't want to read that then just skip the bit in italics. you'll still get the gist of everything.

Maybe that really was what it had meant, all this time...

6.

Sean finally dropped back down onto the ground. He had been walking all night, through Manhattan and across the bridge and now along the streets of Brooklyn, trying to make the smoking rubble of the apartment seem far away. He involuntarily yawned, and then he stumbled, and then he fell to the ground. He made to push himself up, but a sudden pressure stopped him.

“Good morning,” someone said, digging their foot farther into his back. “What’re you doing in Brooklyn?” The voice sounded young- they couldn’t have been any older than him, at least- and was thickly laden with a foreign accent.

“I’ve got just as much right to be here as you do,” Sean replied, stomping down his fear. There was a pause, and then they started laughing. Sean winced, afraid.

“Blue!” Someone called, and they sounded annoyed. Sean heard footsteps approaching, and the person behind him sighed, moving their foot off him. Sean rolled over and sat up, looking at them curiously.

“Come on, Taps, it was just a friendly welcome-”

“I don’t know what you call ‘friendly’ in France, but that sure as hell ain’t it-”

“Aw, don’t be like that! He’s fine, look at him-”

“This is why you ain’t king,” Taps snapped, and the other boy shrugged, but shut up. “Get up,” the scrawny brunet muttered, offering Sean a hand. “You got a spot there.” He  
pointed to Sean’s face, and the boy scrubbed at it, trying to get off the lingering charcoal. “Where d’ya live?”

“Nowhere,” Sean replied, shrugging. The two boys glanced at each other, like they were having some kind of silent argument, and finally Taps sighed.

“Do what you want,” he said, and turned away. Blue rolled his eyes.

“Thanks, I will.” He turned back to Sean. “Sorry ‘bout that downer,” he said cheerfully. “And sorry for kicking you. Just giving you a friendly scare, you know?”

Sean didn’t really know, but he nodded dumbly. “Who are you?”

“Blue!” The boy replied, which wasn’t entirely helpful. “I’m a newsie!”

Sean blinked. “A newsie? You sell newspapers?”

“Yeah! Living by papes is better than it sounds, no fear.”

Sean wrinkled his nose. “Can’t be fun living on the streets,” he muttered.

“That’s why we got the boarding house. Come on!”

“Where are we going?” Sean asked, struggling to keep up as the boy started running down the street.

“I just told you, nitwit!” Blue responded with a laugh, and Sean gave up trying to understand him. He followed, three steps behind. (three steps behind blue was where he would stay. nobody could ever keep up with him)

The sun has lightened the street by the time Blue stops. It's awfully abrupt the way that he does it- he just stops all the sudden, in an instant, like all his momentum just vanished without leaving a trace to linger. He spins around with his wide, wild grin still intact. Sean drew in a ragged breath, attempting some kind of smile back.

The door creaked open loudly. “We might have to wait for a bit,” Blue whispered (except it wasn't really a whisper. sean got the feeling blue wasn't very good at whispering.) “I don't know what time it is.”

“Late,” someone replied, and Sean jumped. Blue grinned.

“Hey, Reason,” he greeted, and a teenage boy came out from the shadows. He was tall and skinny and had wide, dark eyes made Sean uneasy. “How's Rhyme?”

“He's fine,” Reason replied. “Still sleepin’.”

“Thought you's said it was late.”

“Not too late for Rhyme to be sleepin’, though. Keep your head on, Blue. How late do you think it could even be?” Reason shook his head like he was disappointed, but threw an an arm around Blue’s shoulder, tugging him close for an instant before focusing in on Sean. “Who’re you?”

“I-” Blue interrupted him.

“He's from Manhattan! Taps an’ I found him tonight while we was out.”

Sean gave him a bewildered look. “I never said I was from Manhattan.”

“You look it,” Blue replied dismissively. “Small an’ weak an’ all.”

Sean was mildly offended.

“What’re all these spots from?” Reason asked suddenly, reaching out and flicking some charcoal off Sean’s cheek. “Fire?” The older boy looked him up and down. “You’re covered, Spot.”

Sean wanted to protest, because that was the kind of name you gave a dog, and here he was trying to make something of himself, but another boy came whirling into the room and exclaimed. “Spot? I ain't never met a Spot!” In a voice that seemed almost like a yelp. He was short and had sharp cheekbones and floppy brown hair and small hands with long fingers that seemed to fly everywhere- running through his hair, fiddling with his buttons, tapping over his legs and pulling his pockets inside out before stuffing them back. He caught sight of Sean and his grin widened. He came bouncing over, sticking out his hand. He was on the balls of his feet, bobbing up and down. “I'm Jackrabbit! You're Spot, yeah? Nice to meet ya! Blue keeps draggin’ people in. Kind of like a cat, ain't he? Draggin’ in half-dead things he finds in the street. Can’t stop ‘im! He an’ that kid on the streets he spends so much time with, they's insane, they is-”

“Christ, Jackrabbit,” Reason scolded, slapping the boy across the back of the head. “Calm it, won't ya? Can't you see ‘im?” Spot was staring blankly at the hyper boy, no ounce of comprehension visible on his face.

“What's going on?”

Sean should have noticed fear flicker into Reason’s eyes; he should have noticed Jackrabbit drop onto his heels and stop bouncing; he should have noticed Blue’s hands stiffen and his back become rigid.

But he didn't notice any of that. All he noticed was the boy that came in, his hands stuffed in his pockets and an unlit cigarette between his teeth. He reached up and took the cig between two fingers, casting his gaze over the room. “Reason,” he repeated, his voice hardening as his eyes landed on Spot, “What the hell is going on?”

“Mornin’,” Reason said. The boy scoffed. They looked exactly like each other, perfect mirror images.

“Yeah, mornin’. Who the hell is this?”

“Spot. Blue found ‘im.” Spot does notice how no one makes mention of the boy Taps. He doesn't notice Reason almost-flinch when the other boy puts an arm around his  
shoulders.

“Why's he in the boarding house?”

“Spot brought ‘im.”

“Why?” He sounded disgusted. “Look at ‘im. He's the size of my finger. You from Manhattan, Spot?” Spot nodded, and the boy scoffed.

“Why'd you let ‘im in, Reason?”

“I told you, Rhyme, it was Blue-”

“You’s got more authority than Blue, don't you?” Rhyme shook his head like he was disappointed, letting his arm fall from Reason’s shoulders. His eyes fixed onto Spot’s. “You’s can stay, I guess,” he decided after a minute of silence. “Stick with Blue, though. I see you doing anything weird and you're dead.”

Spot counted it as progress that he didn't start crying right there.

So he stayed, and he stayed with Blue. Jackrabbit stayed on their heels all day, bouncing in his crazy way and chattering on about God knows what. Every morning Spot and Blue sold papes in opposite corners of the square, close enough they could see each other, and every night after they shoved the last one into some passerby’s hands, they scampered together to the bridge, where Taps would be.

They were nothing like the people Spot had known before. They were wild and uncontrollable- they ran like they were being chased by hell itself, they laughed like they would never laugh again, they lit cigs and said the smoke was the prettiest thing they ever saw. They got in scuffles and got bruised and yelled till their throats were hoarse. And slowly but surely Spot came to love it. He learned how to throw a punch and how to take one. He learned how to dodge between people on the street and slip his hands into their pockets without notice. He learned how to read eyes and how to fall without getting hurt and how to be reckless without being afraid. He learned how to bleed. He learned how to be proud of the scars. He learned to change.

And then he met Rain, and he learned that he hadn't changed as much as he'd thought.

Rain was just about the prettiest person he'd ever seen. She was Jackrabbit’s twin, and she had the same wide eyes and the same dark hair, but hers came flooding down over her shoulders and back and fell in her face whenever she moved. She hated that, and was always tying it back, but whenever it was down Spot would mention in a shy way that it looked pretty, and Rain would light up and Jackrabbit would roll his eyes and Blue would laugh. She usually sold down by the racetracks, but sometimes she would come see them. Once, while they were feeling rich from the morning and going to buy lunch for themselves, she smiled at him and slipped her hand in his, and Spot was certain his heart had never beat faster in his life.

In their minds, they were gods without the holiness, insurmountable and inimitable. There was nothing in hell or heaven that could limit them. Earth, though- Earth was a different story.

Earth meant mortality, and mortality meant fallibility, and fallibility meant they didn’t notice when Blue and Taps would sneak away somewhere to whisper, meant they didn’t mind when Rhyme started yelling at Reason more, meant they didn’t really care when the older newsies started getting in scuffles over something called “treason”. They were only ten. They had never realized what treason really was. Just a joke, right? They was newsies. They never hurt each other anything serious.

It wasn’t serious when Pennies couldn’t sell over his busted ankle. It’d heal, it was just some accident. It wasn’t serious when Buddy started screaming in the night because someone, someone had kicked him hard, and his shoulder was out of place. It wasn’t serious when Reason started showing up with bruises around his neck or blood leaking down the side of his face. Surely it wasn’t serious. Surely it would all work out.

Except it didn’t work out, not in the way they wanted.

_December 12th, 1893:_

_Rhyme knew it was coming. Reason had told him ages ago, had said “There’s someone after you. Someone wants to kill you.” But Reason hadn’t known who. Pennies hadn’t known who, Cig hadn’t known who, and none of the other damn newsies could tell him. All they could do was accuse each other and start scuffling for no good reason._

_So he stopped sleeping. He couldn’t relax enough. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his own body, gutted and bleeding, and he saw Reason right there next to him, because he knew anyone would have to go through Reason to get to him. It wasn’t fair for Reason to care about Rhyme as much as he did, not when Rhyme had been using him as a punching bag for so long. It wasn’t fair. If Rhyme had it his way, he’d have Reason hate him, so that he wouldn’t feel guilty from his own bruised knuckles and from seeing his dear twin smiling through blood and pain. He’d stop if he could, he wanted so badly to stop, but he couldn’t show that kind of weakness. If the newsies smelled weakness, he’d be dead in a matter of days, and Reason would be gone with him. It was better for both of them this way._

_The door opened quietly. “Nice night, innit?” Someone said, and Rhyme spun around. The boy in the doorway grinned. “Nice to see you, highness.”_

_No._

_“Blue?”_

_Blue gave him his bright, innocent smile, stepping forward. In his hand was a knife- Rhyme recognized that knife._

_“That’s Reason’s knife,” he said slowly. There was a stench in the room, something sharp and metallic. Blue’s hand were smeared with something dark, something awful. Rhyme felt his heartbeat begin the pick up in panic. “How did you get that?”_

_Blue shrugged. “Stole it,” the kid replied cheerfully. “He’s the one that taught me to pick pockets, after all.” Blue was close to him now, and reached out, catching Rhyme’s hand in his. “You’re sort of like big brothers to me,” he continued, and he sounded mockingly affectionate. “You and him have been kind to me since I showed up.”_

_Rhyme jerked his hand away. It felt sticky- it was stained red. “That’s blood,” he whispered. “Blue, who’s blood is this?”_

_There was dead silence._

_“Yours,” Blue replied._

_Yours?_

_What did that-_

_Oh._

_“No.” Rhyme felt his heartbeat in his ears. “No, no, you wouldn’t. You wouldn't. Where is he?”_

_“Outside,” Blue said in a lilting voice, and something like a half-strangled shriek rose in Rhyme’s chest._

_“No, no, no, no,” he muttered. “No, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t.”_

_Blue was still smiling kindly. “Hush, brother dear,” he said. Rhyme felt like he was going to be sick. “You want to see Reason? Is that it?”_

_“Where is he?” Rhyme repeated, even though he already knew. He didn’t want to know. It felt like his insides were collapsing inward on themselves like something vital had been ripped out of him. “Where is he? You wouldn’t, Blue, I know you wouldn’t, where is he, where’s Reason, where’s my brother, please-”_

_But pleading wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change a thing, and it wouldn’t that goddamn grin off Blue’s face. “Here,” Blue said, pressing the knife into Rhyme’s hands. But his fingers weren’t working right, and the knife tumbled away, thumping onto the floor. Blue laughed, this small, insane ten-year-old with a wild grin and a heart of stone, he laughed and took a few paces to the other side of the room. “Look at this!” Blue exclaimed, his small hands wrapping around an ivory cane leaning against the wall._

_“That was my father’s,” Rhyme whispered._

_“Did he use it for walking?” Blue asked, and Rhyme breathed out through his nose, choking on memories._

_“No.”_

_Blue nodded slowly. “Neither did mine,” he said, and then he was coming back across the room and Rhyme closed his eyes._

_“C’est la vie, frère,” Blue whispered. The cane slammed into the side of Rhyme’s head and he collapsed, letting the dark pull him away, spiraling down, down, down._

_Rhyme knew it was coming. ___

__Spot found Reason sprawled on the ground with blood pooling around him, breath still just barely shuddering in and out of his chest. At first his breath froze, his eyes widening- but only for a second, and then he swallowed hard and knelt down. “Reason?”_ _

__Reason’s eyes flew open. “Spot?” He murmured. There was blood on his lips. “Spot?”_ _

__“Who was it?” Spot asked, wincing as Reason coughed weakly, a scarlet spray coming from his mouth._ _

__“Blue.”_ _

__Of course it was Blue._ _

__“I’ll kill him,” Spot whispered. Reason laughed hoarsely, shakily._ _

__“You can’t kill him,” he whispered._ _

__Spot was mildly offended._ _

__“He wants to be king,” Reason continued. “Don’t let him be king, Spot.” Spot opened his mouth, but Reason seized his wrist. “Shut up,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare disobey.” The effect is somewhat ruined by his immediate, violent bout of coughing. ”You’re king, Spot,” he said, and his voice was ruined and somewhat desperate and Spot wasn’t sure exactly what his words meant. “You could be king, you’d be a great king, Spot.”_ _

__“But-”_ _

__“Don’t let Blue become king, Spot,” Reason said one last time. “You’re king.”_ _

__“I’m king,” Spot replied, and it felt like a vow._ _

__And then that crucial light dropped out of Reason’s eyes just like it had dropped out of Mr. Higgins’, and Blue appeared in the doorway._ _

__Spot’s eyes darted up and down his friend- an ivory cane was clutched in his hand, his shirt was red with blood- and he was crying. Crying. Sobbing, and his hand, wrapped around the cane, was shaking._ _

__“You want to be king,” Spot said, standing up, oddly calm._ _

__“No,” Blue responded, his voice cracking. “No, no, I don’t.”_ _

__Oh?_ _

__Spot heard a stifled gasp behind him, and a muffled scream. The newsies had woken up, then._ _

___I’m king,_ he thought. _I have to show them all that I’m king.__ _

__“I don’t want to be king,” Blue repeated, and a sob escaped his mouth. “I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.”_ _

__Silence._ _

__“Then give me the cane, Blue,” Spot said, holding out his hand. Blue laughed a cracked, broken laugh._ _

__“You want it?” He asked, his voice strained. “You want the cane?” He shook his head. “I used this to kill a king. You want this weapon, Spot? You? Little Spot, weak Spot, wants the weapon that killed the king?”_ _

__Spot stepped closer. “Blue,” he said softly. “Give me the cane.”_ _

__Blue is laughing hysterically, shaking his head violently, tears streaking down his face. “No,” he babbled, sounding like a madman. “No, Spotty, no, no, no.”_ _

__“Blue-”_ _

__Something occurs to him. Something he swore he would never repeat, something he promised Taps he would never, ever let on that he knew. One more broken promise couldn’t hurt tonight._ _

__“Give me the cane, Michael,” he snapped, and Blue’s head snapped toward him. “C’mon, Meyers. Give me the goddamn cane.”_ _

__Michael Meyers stares him in the eyes, his gaze desperate and baffled and sorrowful. “I’m Michael,” he murmured, and Spot nodded._ _

__“Yes,” he replied, and stepped closer. “Give me the cane, Michael.”_ _

__The cane thudded onto the floor._ _

__After that, the night is a blur. Somehow, they are all too shocked to move, and Blue stumbles from the boarding house with no injuries. Somehow, they are all too disorganized and despondent, and the fact that Spot has become king faces no opposition. (by the time the opposition comes it fails because by then he is strong and he had proven himself and he has earned respect and fear)_ _

__Soon the sun rose. Time passed as time always passes, and it faded away, away, away. Rain and Jackrabbit vanished soon after, because their father had found him a job in a factory and didn’t want her around the newsies anymore. (rain ran away soon after and changed his name from everly to elmer and manhattan treated him so much better because no one knew him and he could scream out headlines again)_ _

__Taps had disappeared with Blue, gone with the night, and no one of them ever bothered to go find the two. The city was too big and full of people and none of the newsies were hellbent enough on revenge to put in the effort. (michael meyers didn’t recognize elmer with hair cut short but elmer recognized him- but both of them wanted to forget the regicide so he kept his mouth shut and they kept their new names and elmer watched as mush started to smile again (and taps was in queens for a long while but it didn’t last (but that’s another story) so he showed up and mush couldn’t recognize taps in this tall, snarky boy and taps didn’t recognize blue in the boy full of optimism and elmer stayed silent and let the manhattan boys make fun of taps’ skittishness (“youre so skittery”)))_ _

__Spot was the king of Brooklyn, with an ivory cane in his hand, and Sean Conlon was dead and gone, burnt away in an apartment fire six long years ago. It was 1899._ _

__He wasn’t useless._ _

__He wasn’t alone._ _

__He wasn't Sean._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edoiqdnqjneokqienq i can't believe this is over 
> 
> this is the first time i've ever finished a multi chapter and im insanely proud you guys
> 
> kudos to walt and casey for putting up with my shit i love you guyssssss <3


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